I believe the very best of our composers would find it rather difficult to set the Irish cry to _music_—though by the _new light_, every noise whatsoever must be a _note_ or _half a note_; and it is reported that Mr. Moore and Sir John Stephenson used their joint and several efforts to turn this national cry into _melody_, but without success. I cannot see why such able persons should fail on so interesting a composition. There are plenty of notes in it whole and half, sharp, flat, and natural;—sufficient to compose any piece of music. It is only therefore to select the best among them scientifically; put an “andante affettuoso” in front; then send it to a barrel organ-builder;—and no doubt it would grind out to the entire satisfaction of the whole Irish population.
This leads me to a digression more important. The superstition of the lower orders of Irish, when death occurs in any peculiar manner, is superlative. In truth, the only three kinds of death they consider as _natural_ are, dying quietly in their own cabins;—being hanged, about the assize-time;—or starving when the potato crop is deficient. All these they regard as matters of course; but any other species of dissolution is contemplated with much horror; though, to be sure, they make no very strong objection to being shot at by a regular army. They say their “fathers and forefathers before them were always _used_ to _that same_;” and all they expect in such case is, that there should be some sort of reason for it, which they themselves frequently furnish. But those manslaughters which occur through the activity of the revenue-officers in prevention of distillation, they never can reconcile themselves to, and never forgive. They cannot understand the _reason_ for this at all, and treasure up a spirit of savage revenge to the last day of their lives against excisemen.[22]
An ignorant poor cottager says to his landlord, naturally enough, “Ough! then isn’t it mighty odd, plase your honour, that we are not hindered from _eating_ oats, whenever we can _get any_? but if we attempt to _drink_ them, by J——s, we are kilt and battered and shot and burned out like a parcel of dogs by the _excisemen_, that’s twice greater rogues nor we are, plase your honour.”